


Sandy Shores

by Riddle_Me_This_Darling



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 22:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riddle_Me_This_Darling/pseuds/Riddle_Me_This_Darling
Summary: Michael loathes Sandy Shores and Trevor isn't making the situation any easier. From Michael's perspective.





	Sandy Shores

**Author's Note:**

> I replayed GTA V a few months ago and this idea just popped into my head from out of the blue.  
> I didn't expect to find much GTA fanfiction, and I'm not even sure if anyone still reads GTA fanfiction.  
> We'll just have to see.
> 
> I apologise in advance if the characters seem a little OOC.  
> I tried my best.
> 
> I also apologise for any grammatical/spelling errors.

A small pebble hits the back of Michael’s neck. Then there is silence.

A dog barks in the distance, followed by the shout of its owner who hollers at the beast to quiet down. A sunburnt man rounds the corner in his buggy far too quickly and sand is thrown into the air, almost coating Michael’s expensive sandals with dry, yellowed dirt. This irritates him, but it's too damn hot and he doesn’t have the energy to yell at the prick, which is a shame because he wants to yell at someone - wants to punch someone. It wasn't easy to suppress his internal fury at his current situation. The fact that it's Trevor's fault makes his blood boil. It made him feel itchy, the pent up anger.

The man in the buggy slows down. Michael really did want to punch the fucker, just to teach him a lesson for being a bad driver. He'd punch any fucker. Just not Trevor, though he wishes he could. It was tempting.

Another pebble grazes the shell of his ear as it flies past.

No, he definitely wasn’t going to go there. Trevor was looking for a fight. He’d been toying with Michael for days, purposely aggravating him in the hope that he would blow. All because of the past. Their shitty past. Brad. North Yankton. The FIB. He needs to let it go. Michael didn't have a choice; it was the safety of his family or Trevor.

The bastard in the buggy almost crashes, only missing Trevor’s truck by a mere inch. He cries out as he desperately tries to gain control over his vehicle and the sight of the moron struggling is quite funny.

Another pebble is aimed at Michael. It bounces off his right shoulder. Someone chuckles.

“Trevor, if you don’t cut that shit out, I’ll rip your hands from your body!”

“Ooooh, we are touchy!”

Trevor’s creepy little friend giggles again. Fucking pathetic.

Another pebble hits Michael.

“That’s fucking it!” He shouts, leaping from his chair. As he spins on his heel to face his shitty so-called _best fucking friend_ , his rage melts into sheer exhaustion at the sight of Trevor standing above him on the trailer porch in nothing but his filthy white briefs.

“What? You gonna hit me, princess? The heat too much for ya?” Trevor taunts, his infamous maniacal smile in place. “Come on then, alleviate my boredom! You need the exercise!”

Michael wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead and flatly replies, “and you need to put some fucking clothes on, Trevor.”

“Why?” Trevor snaps, raising his arms into the air. “I’m not ashamed of my body. It’s all natural, isn’t it? Ha! Not that you and the rest of Los Santos would know the meaning of the word natural! With your Cluckin’ Bell and your Bean Machine and all the other damn plastic food –“

“Jesus Trevor, shut up!”

“Look at you! You’ve got your own personal tennis court and your little blue pool and you’re still a fat –“

“I’m warning you!”

“Oh ho ho,” Trevor laughs, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stares Michael down. Taking a step forward, he growls, “well if you’re warning me, fattie." He glares murderously as he slowly descends the porch stairs, pausing briefly on each step.

Refusing to back down, Michael took a deep breath.

"Trevor,” he begins calmly, “just quit it. I’m not doing this right now. I’m not going to be dragged into a fight because that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want a fight, a chance to finally lay into me. You've thrown shit at me since the moment we got here."

“Is that so?” Trevor sneers, looking over his shoulder at Ron. He asks his friend, “do you think I’m looking for a fight, Ron.”

“I – I don’t know, Trevor,” the man stammers nervously. He’s hops from foot to foot and wearily eyes the fence bordering Trevor’s trailer, close to pissing himself in fear. It’s obvious he’s considering making a run for it whilst Trevor is distracted. Michael almost feels sorry for him.

With his attention fully focused on Michael again, Trevor rants, “you’re the one who’s been bitching all day, every day for the past week, Townley! Oh sorry, De Santa.” He puts on a high pitched, whiney voice and crudely imitates Michael. “I’m too hot! I’m too tired! There’s nothing decent to drink! All the plates are dirty! My suit is covered in sand! I’m a pathetic, fat fuck who –“

Before Michael can finally snap and lunge for the man, the trailer door suddenly flies open. Trevor immediately freezes and tentatively turns his head. He's behaves like a child would when they're caught red-handed by a parent, fearing being scolded. Michael has to look away.

Patricia pokes her head around the door frame and smiles at the unhappy men.

"Trevor, I’ve made you and the boys some drinks,” she says mildly, before backing out of the door with three cups of freshly made fruit juice balanced on top of an old pizza box. After carefully placing the plastic cups on top of Trevor’s vacant chair, she gave his shoulder an affectionate pat before hurrying back inside.

Michael knows she heard them bickering. She’s a bright lady and she’s all too aware that he and Trevor have a history, and that they can barely tolerate one another. Michael doesn’t understand how she can remain so calm after being kidnapped by a crazy idiot she doesn’t even know. It was wrong of Trevor to drag her into this mess and truly, Michael’s heart goes out to the poor woman because she’s gone from living with an abusive, shit bag of a husband, to living with two psychopaths who are constantly at each other's throats, along with a pathetic, weedy rat of a man who keeps hovering like a bad smell. He feels for her, despite her outward displays of contentment, but a selfish part of him is grateful for her presence. Her passive calmness and gentle assurance (whilst a little concerning) is a godsend, and he is sure that without her intervention, he would have fucking killed Trevor by now.

“Thank you, Patricia,” Ron says quietly, though she probably wouldn’t be able to hear him now. Curiously, he doesn’t reach for a cup. He stays where he, as though he’s waiting for permission like an obedient dog.

Neither Trevor nor Michael move either.

They stare at one another, daring the other man to make the first move. Michael really doesn’t have the patience for this but he knows he has to proceed with caution. One step towards Trevor and fists will be flying.

The trailer door opens again and Patricia reappears.

“Your drinks will not stay cold for long,” she warns, and there’s an edge to her voice. A firmness. Perhaps she isn’t so passive after all, just careful. Maybe. Michael isn’t sure.

Then she goes back inside.

“Go on, Trevor,” he prompts, indicating his head towards the drinks. “She’s right, they’ll warm up soon and Patricia has made them for us.”

It suddenly strikes him that the woman must have gone grocery shopping. Trevor isn’t the type to buy fruit or even request it. Hell, Trevor doesn’t buy anything of substance. Michael can’t remember him ordering Ron to get groceries. By the looks of Ron’s skin, he hasn’t bothered with fruits and vegetables in a long time either. He wonders when Patricia left to buy fruit. Wasn’t she always in the trailer with them? Trevor looks just as confused as him, and Michael wonders if he's thinking the same thing.

After a moments silence, Trevor grumbles, “well grab a cup then.”

As soon as Trevor takes his, Ron one and doesn't drink until Trevor takes a gulp. That leaves Michael.

Michael does want a drink, needs one in fact but he stalls, unsure if there is any significance in this. Did Patricia make the drinks on purpose? Did she make them fruit juice to send a subtle message that she thought they were unhealthy? Did she think they needed to drink something that wasn’t beer or murky water? Was this meant to stand as some sort of peace offering – a middle ground of some sort?

“If you don’t take that cup, I’m drinking it.” Trevor threatens, still glaring at Michael. He’s already downed his juice. Typical.

With a shrug, Michael marches up the stairs and bypasses Trevor, intentionally avoiding eye contact. When he picks up his cup, he takes a cautious sip and savours the delicious blend of citrus fruits. Patricia can make damned nice juice. He finishes the beverage in three sips.

“What a doll,” he says fondly, smiling to himself.

“Patricia is a real nice lady, Trevor,” Ron chimes in nervously, swaying a little as he speaks.

“She’s great,” Trevor smiles. “Best woman in the universe! An angel. Yet she ended up married to that no good –“

“Trevor,” Michael cuts him off, fixing him with a firm, warning stare. He nods towards the door and mutters, “she’s just inside.”

Trevor frowns at him for a moment then shrugs, before carelessly throwing his cup over the side of the porch. Michael grimaces. He isn’t the tidiest of men but he always likes to keep a good outward appearance at the very least. Then again, there was nobody to impress in Sandy Shores.

He looks down at his empty cup and wonders where he should put it. He decides to place it on top of the pizza box again. They can be shoved into a trash can later.

A golf cart rolls past and the three men fall into an uncomfortable silence. It's a rare occurrence because Trevor normally fills quiet moments with meaningless ranting. Sometimes Patricia made small talk, but she was still inside. Whilst staring at the road in front of him, Michael is relieved to note that the thick tension previously surrounding himself and Trevor had eased a little. The air finally felt breathable.

“Thank you, Patricia,” he thinks silently. This was probably why she decided to make the juice.

Trevor being Trevor, couldn’t remain quiet and still for long.

“Well, I’ve got stuff I gotta do,” he announces. “I’ll be back later.”

“You’ll put some clothes on first, won’t you?” Michael questions and frowns at the man’s lack of dress.

“Just this once,” Trevor grins before adding, “besides, it gets colder at night.”

“I just don't want you being arrested for public indecency when we’re meant to laying low,” Michael explains, folding his arms over his chest. It would be typical of the maniac to fuck things up because of such a small matter.

“Aww Mikey, it’s as though you care,” teases Trevor.

Michael rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Do you need me to come with you, Trevor?" Ron asks, taking a small step forward. He looks so hopeful, it's sickening.

"No," Trevor dismisses him with a wave of his hand. As he flings open the trailer door, he hisses, "you just stay put."

"Okay Trevor!" Ron calls out to him. With Trevor gone, he gives Michael a cold look and mumbles, "I suppose you'll be staying as well."

"Yes," Michael replies bluntly.

"Don't you have anything to do either?"

"I'm meant to be lying low, aren't I?" Michael growls, ready to knock the lights out of the guy.

"True," Ron shrugs. He sits back down in his seat and pulls his radio on to his lap.

Michael wants to ask what that's all about - why was he so obsessed with his stupid radio? Since he didn't really care, he decided to save himself the oxygen.

The trailer door is flung open again and Trevor stomps past Michael. He's wearing his disgusting, stained white t-shirt and filthy jeans again, the same outfit he's worn for the past three days. The clothing had probably never been washed since the day he had bought them and thought that made Michael shudder.

"Lateeeer ladies!" Trevor shouts, before hopping over the metal fence. Within minutes, he's speeding away with Channel X blaring from the speakers.

Michael sighs and leans against the porch railing, glad to have some peace. He wants to go home, badly. His house may be empty, a painful reminder that his family had left him, but at least there was air conditioning and a canter of good whiskey waiting for him in his kitchen. No Trevor Philip's either.

The day couldn't come soon enough. Since Ron was an irritating weasel, Michael decided to go inside and join Patricia. Maybe she'd join him and have a beer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
